


The Ginger Season

by tenosei



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anachronistic, Angst, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:38:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenosei/pseuds/tenosei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whoever said high school was the best time of your life was only half wrong. Sometimes the bad is what makes the good matter. This is one of those times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ginger Season

Hospitals were cemeteries pretending to be gardens; they penned in an antiseptic reek that tracked between death and stainless steel, and the only life inside was sick or waning. Every room had been and would be again where someone's last moments closed in on them, and no matter who came to keep them company they would have to go alone. In rooms where spare machines were unused and set apart from the walls, in rooms where white blankets were pulled past unstirring faces resting on cold beds, in rooms where someone was being smiled at and having their hands shaken before they packed their things in a rush, it was a farce. Nothing lasted in a hospital. No life, no heart in them at all, just remnants and dry ghosts. Haru didn't like being in hospitals with his grandmother and watching her disappear behind reflective doors that made his own face seem alien while he sat waiting, holding his breath in intervals as long as he could manage until she came out again with a smile, and he could lead her safely away by the hand.

Just then he was still waiting. Head down, hunched over and serious with a pen poised in the air where it had been stuck for a long while, unsure what he would set it to next. He wished he were home.

"Hey, kid." He glanced up from the filled-in notepad sitting catawampus across his thighs to meet a set of mischievous eyes watching intently from across the way. They belonged to a man with a wide grin and an languid slump to his posture, both arms spread across the back of the chairs to either side of him. In the ugly electric light, his coloring was garish: an eyesore with a shock of dusty black hair and rich brown eyes wearing a black track jacket and noisy, green windbreaker pants that slid up to his bare ankles. There were red clay smears on the front lip of his blue sneakers, and he cocked his head to the side like a dog when he caught Haru's attention.

With an unimpressed purse of his lips, he went back to drawing - trying - his hands mottled with ink tracks. All he could find in the waiting room were pens, so all of his mistakes had been dragged over his hands and crossed out on the paper, leaving it a cluttered mess. He'd have started a new page if he thought he had the time, but he didn't, so he carried on making more careful shapes around the maze of ink dandelions. There was a laugh and the crinkling of fabric when the man stood and crossed the short space between them, plopping down unceremoniously in the seat beside Haru. This time, he kept his arms folded unobtrusively in his lap. "I can see you're obviously very busy there. Just wanted to say hello. No harm intended, but aren't you gonna say hello back?"

He didn't look up, forcing oblong cat eyes onto a decidedly sofa-like blob. "Aren't you a bum?"

"What a brat!" the man laughed, trailing off with a sigh and shaking his head. "No, are you? I hear artists are supposed to be."

"I'm not a bum," he said firmly, finally facing the man to level him with a scowl. "I'm drawing a picture for my grandma."

"Is that it? Well, that's OK, then. If you aren't passionate about it, you can't really be an artist."

Haru didn't respond. It didn't make any sense to him, and he didn't want to continue talking to this man, would've been perfectly content if the conversation stopped there, but it didn't. He reasoned then that maybe idiots couldn't be quiet. "So, what are you drawing? Looks like an alien," came the question spoken loudly in his ear as he leaned over to spy on Haru's work. He swatted at the man's face and rubbed the side of his head, heaving a long-suffering sigh.

"It's a friend. Her name is Doug, and she's for my grandma. Stop asking questions now."

Another laugh, softer then, and the man sat back to reach into the breast pocket of his jacket while Haru glared daggers. When he pulled his hand out, there was a mechanical pencil between his fingers, and he waggled it at Haru. "Here, brat, this has an eraser," he said, tapping a lead piece from the tip. Haru's annoyance melted, and he cautiously took the pencil from his open palm with a quiet thanks. He was shot a cheerful thumbs-up, and after that it was quiet for a while, but he slid the notepad over just enough that the man had a clear view without needing to lean over so far to watch. The luxury of erasing the strokes that weren't so pretty and replacing them with more sophisticated ones was welcome, and soon the whole page was full of charmingly ugly friends, separated by what would be blank space if it weren't already busy with thick black scribbles at which Haru nodded approvingly. "So, do these have names, too?"

He'd been so quiet that Haru nearly forgot about him, so when he spoke it was a surprise. "Grandma will name them."

"Right. Granny. That'll be nice of her," he said. "You should draw me something, huh? A manta ray." Prodding him gently enough in the ribs to tickle, he grinned when Haru's involuntary giggle lapsed instantly into a displeased moue.

"No. Draw it yourself." He cut his eyes over.

All he got for his annoyance was a good-natured snort. "Such a brat," he muttered. Squeezing his fists into tight balls, he tried to shift his ankle, and Haru watched him wince and exhale slowly afterward, sticking the pencil back toward the man only to be met with a raised palm. "Make good use of it for me."

A woman in squeaky sneakers and scrubs passed without acknowledging either of them, heading in a beeline for the swinging double doors at the end of the hall and pushing flat against one of them to let by an older lady with her hair in a low, gray bun and a slight limp. She murmured a low _Excuse me_ , and Haru rushed to his feet as they nodded at one another, walking quickly toward the old woman. Her eyes turned toward him just as he caught up, and she stuck out a hand that he caught tightly in his own, smiling. "Haru, I was only gone for an hour." With a groan, she hoisted him to stand on her feet and began shuffling them down the corridor.

He basked in the perfume clinging to the threads in her long, blue skirt. "I was worried."

She laughed lightly. "You're the only six year-old in America with frown lines. Don't be so old before your time comes." Haru let her carry him along with her steps without responding until they were easing past the man who'd given him the pencil.

He waved a hand. "Leaving so soon, squirt?" he asked, and she stopped, surprised, letting Haru step off her feet.

"Did you make a friend, Haru?" She regarded the man suspiciously, and he had the decency to flush, but Haru brought up the hand with the notepad so that she could see.

"No, he's a bum, but he gave me a pencil."

He spluttered. "I told you I wasn't a bum."

Her hand wove through Haru's dark hair, stroking his scalp, and he leaned back into it. "I apologize for my grandson; he's spirited. My name is Nanase, and yours would be..?"

"Ah, Matsuoka," he piped, jabbing a hand out confidently for her to shake, and she took it delicately. "I just thought I'd try to cheer him up while I was waiting for my PT; he looked a little glum."

"PT? You're awfully young for it, aren't you?"

Shrugging, he answered with a thoughtful tilt of his head. "Well, see, I'm a swimmer. Have to keep my muscles healthy or I might tear them up, you know?"

"I understand." Smoothing down the hair she'd mussed, she smiled politely. "Well, it was nice to make your acquaintance, and thank you for keeping him company. Goodbye."

"See you 'round."

She let him have her hand again as she began walking, and he made sure it was unfreeable until they were at least out of the building, when he felt the stress ebb away into the chill autumn air and glanced upward. Her face was tight as the lilac shadows of tall, thin-leafed trees fell over them and stretched across the pavement, the orange sun shining low through the branches. Movements careful and labored as they always were after therapy, he watched her fish the car keys from her coat pocket to unlock the passenger's side door, and when she made to grab him, he raised the page he'd filled with friends for her to take and climbed inside himself. The hurt seemed to dissolve from her features to let through a toothy smile, and her fingers reached out to trace the outline of each one adoringly while he struggled to get situated.

"Do I name these as well?" she asked.

"Yes, you have to."

She nodded once, "I'll get to it, then," and passed back the drawing before hoisting him into the booster seat. "This is wonderful. We'll have it framed."

"Grandma, don't be silly." He cast his eyes downward in embarrassment, but her long fingers gently slid up his cheek, and she craned her neck to face him square on.

"Don't doubt yourself. There's no use in it." Softly, she kissed his forehead and slid the plate into the buckle. "If I say it's wonderful, it's wonderful." At that, she shut the door and rounded the front of the car to slide into the driver's seat and cranked the engine. "Let's go. We can get ice cream."

"I want fish."

A cunning look dawned on her, and she leaned in close to touch their foreheads. "How about," she whispered, "fish ice cream!" With a gentle nip at the end of his nose, she set along dabbing his face in little kisses until he squealed with laughter and protest, pushing her off to make a show of wiping his cheeks.

"Gross..." he mumbled half-heartedly, and she hummed, pulling out of the parking space.

His body settled comfortably against the worn depression in the seat as the heater rattled to life, and hot air gusted over them, turning his gaze outside - not quite tall enough to see over the high door frame - to watch nothing but clear blue sky and powerlines race past alongside the road. The notepad was clutched close to his stomach, and he held the pencil in a fist, dragging the lead up and down the back of it, drowsy and pacified at the hospital being left far behind with the cold kept at bay outside the window. Even the old upholstery clung to her perfume.

The feeling of the seatbelt being unlatched and drawn around his arm roused him from sleep, and he opened his eyes blearily, immediately tightening his grip to make sure the notepad hadn't slipped while they'd been driving, but it was secure in his lap. "Grandma, did we get fish?" he asked, taking her hand and letting himself be set on the ground. She went slowly enough that his heavy feet could find their way carefully up the concrete steps to the dark porch, and he shivered. The sun had set by then, and it was so cold that it left Haru's teeth chattering, jarring him unpleasantly from the haze of his nap.

"Tomorrow. It's bed time now." Soon enough, she'd opened the door and tugged him inside to strip him of his coat and shoes, tossing them over the back of the old wooden chair by the short bookcase under the window. The house was hot, another uncomfortable upset, and he frowned, disoriented. After watching her strip her outer layers and leave them with his, she turned to look at him expectantly. "Off into your pajamas, now" she said, nudging him with a hand toward the brown-carpeted stairs past the open living room to their right. "I'll hold your pictures if you want." He nodded and let her slide it from his hands and close the cover. "When it's framed, we'll hang it here so whenever your parents are away, you can see it."

"Then, I'll always see it," he said, and he watched her expression flash briefly with anger before calming.

She sighed through her nose, and he was glad that he would always see it when her fingers combed through his hair. "Go get changed. I'll be up to tuck you in." Her tone was firm, so he obeyed without question, heading off up the stairs and unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

 

It felt like hours he'd been waiting, and he was sullen, distracted and noticing things he normally wouldn't, like the dirt under his fingernails that he couldn't remember getting there and the way a couple of tiles in the corner by the double doors were a slightly paler shade than the rest. It unsettled him because he didn't want to notice more things about the hospital. He wished he never had to set foot in one again.

The sound of old hinges working brought him out of his anxiety. "Well, if it ain't my favorite li'l squirt."

His pencil stopped moving on the paper, and he looked up to see a broad grin on a tall man who was headed for the seat beside him without asking if it was taken. He was alone in the room, so it wouldn't have been, but Haru thought he should have asked anyway and waited until the distracting rustle of fabric on leather had died down to answer with a severe frown. "Bum."

The man rolled his eyes. "Matsuoka, kid. Be fair." He took the liberty of ruffling Haru's hair so vigorously that it nearly sent him off balance and was shot a vicious glare which he only laughed off. "Don't look so sour. You'll ruin your face, look like your old granny in there," he said lightly, and the anger in Haru came back with renewed force. Turning to face Matsuoka square on so he could see how serious it was, he set his pencil down and locked their eyes.

"She's not old. Don't call her granny." It made him uneasy, the ideas Matsuoka had of her because he was stupid and didn't know what he was talking about. She was still young. She knew everything. Most of all she was Haru's grandmother _only_. Not his.

"Alright, my mistake. I'm really sorry." He put up his hands defensively. "No need to be upset; I take it back," he said. There was a sincerity in him that appeased Haru enough to relax and move his legs to hang over the edge of the chair, returning to his drawing. If he knew what Haru did, he wouldn't call her old so carelessly, he was sure of it, but Matsuoka sat back and leaned on his elbow, taking up both armrests between their chairs to watch him. "So, you kept that pencil." Haru was still too unhappy with his comment and neglected to respond, but after a moment Matsuoka snorted and gently nudged him. "Come on. It's been a whole week. You can't still hate me so much."

"I can," he said easily.

The outer edge of his hand was entirely gray with lead, and when he swept the eraser shavings away, it left ugly streaks on the paper. He frowned at them and turned his palm over to stare at the mess, deciding to wipe it on his pants to keep from messing up the pictures any more than he already had, but a large hand gently stopped his own, and he looked over in surprise at Matsuoka whose other hand was in his pants pocket, shuffling around until he pulled out a clean white handkerchief. Watching quietly because he wasn't sure what else to do, he let Matsuoka use it to wipe the grime from his dirty palm until it was pink and clean. Then without another word he shoved it back in his pocket, filth and all, and winked. "Don't mess up your pants, huh? Your grandmother probably wouldn't approve so much."

His hair fell over his face as took his hand back, abashed, and faced away. "Why do you bother me?"

A loud bark of laughter pealed out of Matsuoka. "I guess I can't help myself. You remind me of my best friend."

"Who is it?" he asked.

"My son." Haru had been reaching for the pencil, again but he paused. He checked over his shoulder to see Matsuoka's eyes were glassy, directed down the hall as he smiled at nothing in particular, maybe the dim exit sign glowing red over the door to the front foyer. Curiosity and jealousy battled in him, but uncertainty won over, and Haru decided to ignore it all and keep going for the pencil without another word.

The next voice Haru heard was that of a male nurse calling for Matsuoka to come with him, and he flicked Haru's nose with a cheery "Catch you later," as he trotted past.

When his grandmother reemerged, he asked to have fish for dinner and made sure to stay awake on the way to choose a fleshy, pink salmon from the market because fresh mackerel was out of season, and she didn't let him eat canned food. It was drizzling when they pulled into the drive, but he pleaded, so she agreed, and they grilled their dinner under the tin awning on the front porch with thick gasps of smoke curling upward from of the mouth of the grill, the rain sliding in heavy rivers along the edge of the roof. A tea candle flickered between them on the short table they were seated around, and he stared past it at the rain falling on everything but them in their little bubble of heat, running his thumb over the thick seam of the pillow underneath him. There wasn't much left on his plate, but before he finished he set to watch his grandmother, sitting across from him and watching the rain just the same, and asked, "What does a manta ray look like?"

She turned blue eyes on him curiously.

 

The pencil had run out of lead some time before their next visit to the hospital, so he'd returned to a pen, and he twirled it across the page in unapologetic blue ribbons with no particular end in mind. It was simple and felt nice, good enough to pass the time. He focused on making them pretty, tried to color between the lines until it became too difficult, so he chose to color only outside of them. Someone sneezed. Dull and heard under the crack in the door, he couldn't see them, and they couldn't be too close, but he thought of how death here was as solid around him as the walls, and his nose buried itself under the collar of his jacket to breathe in the smell of home. He dragged out another blue twizzle and scratched his ankle with the toe of his shoe.

A shadow eased its way over the paper, pulled along by a pair of blue, clay-spattered sneakers, and he craned his neck back to see Matsuoka's beaming face. "Hey, kiddo."

"Matsuoka."

"Not even a "mister," huh? Well, it's an upgrade from bum, at least. That's for sure. Guess I can't complain." He took his place beside Haru, appraising the day's artwork. Fingers tracing slowly along the curves, he clucked his tongue. "You sure art's not your passion? Every time I see you, you're doodling something new."

"Because Grandma asked me. I like to nap and eat fish," he said, earning a laugh.

"OK, I can respect that, but those aren't passions."

"Why not?" he asked. The pen clinked against the notebook's metal rings when he capped it and put it away, finished for the time. He flipped it on his lap, searching through a past week's worth of filled pages for one in particular and thought that napping and eating were appropriate passions. Nothing else was interesting.

"Your passion has to be the most important thing to you."

"Then, Grandma is my passion."

Matsuoka began to guffaw so loud and so hard that it startled Haru. His eyes went wide, and he nearly dropped his drawings, rounding on Matsuoka in concern. For several long seconds, he was incorrigible, and the sound echoed off the flat walls, before it tapered off to something more like coughing, and Haru gawked at his red face and teary eyes as Matsuoka hacked into a balled fist and stared incredulously. It took him a while to collect himself, when he swept a hand through his displaced bangs and hung his head, resting his forearms on his knees as what remained of his mirth left in little snickers. "Kid," he said, voice strained, "granny can't be your passion." His eyes peeked at Haru over the top of his shoulder, and he frowned at the dismissal.

"She's the most important," he murmured, and Matsuoka sat suddenly upward to gesture with his hand, leaning close to Haru.

"And that's OK. Really - family is the most important thing. I said it wrong. I'm not much with words, but I guess -" he fumbled, "How do I put this?" Haru watched his brow furrow and wondered why he was being bothered by this bum who couldn't get his words right, going back to looking at the pictures in his notebook. "A passion is something just for you, what you get excited about and want to do the best. It's fun for you. The most fun. Sometimes, and it's the hardest thing you ever did, takes a lot of work, but you still have to do it because you don't feel right unless you do. Don't get me wrong, you can be passionate with people - _really_ passionate -" he cut himself off with a cringe and shook his head, "but that's not your passion. Right? Your passion is what makes you feel good doing just for yourself, gives you freedom. It's not for anyone else." His expression grew distant again, and he stopped speaking.

Haru considered it briefly, thinking there was nothing he felt about that way. He didn't understand most of it, honestly, but if passion couldn't be his grandma then nothing else mattered. He drew because his grandmother told him it made her feel better, so he went without stopping when he could. Whatever the difference between passion and liking was, though, confused him, so he brushed it aside and dropped his gaze to his lap. While Matsuoka had been speaking, he'd found the page he was looking for, and he reached over to tug on the crinkling fabric at his elbow, grasping for his attention. The fog cleared from his eyes, and he studied Haru pleasantly before his attention narrowed at the paper. "Whatcha got, squirt?" he asked, reaching out to turn it so he could get a better view, and Haru waited anxiously for his reaction.

Watching his face for any sign of disapproval, Haru kept himself behaved, arms at his sides and legs still, ready to burst until the look of unmistakable excitement donned once he realized what he was seeing. Using both hands, he took the notebook from Haru, who was nothing but proud at the completely pleased Matsuoka's scrutiny, grinning broadly at a lumpy little manta ray with uneven eyes and a tail that jutted to the left, filled in with so much detail that he'd used up his blue and green markers. In bold letters at the top, he'd carefully signed his name, and Matuoka read them out, "H-A-R-U." He glanced back for a moment. "Haru? That's your name, huh, Picasso? Well," he threw an arm over Haru's shoulders and squeezed, crushing him until he tried to push Matsuoka away, "I think I'll stick with 'squirt' anyway. This's no kiddin' great! You remembered to do me a manta ray. I can keep it, right?"

Haru nodded, and a buzzing warmth filled him from his toes to his chest. Someone being so delighted with something he'd done made him happy, and he chewed his lip, turning his face away from the attention he didn't know how to handle.

"I'll keep it forever. This is the best thing anyone ever gave me, you know that?"

"Don't be silly," he said quietly, still too flustered to meet his eyes.

"You know you have to do me something else now, right? I won't be satisfied with just this; I want a whole wall of Kiddo art." Haru felt his face go as warm as the rest of him, and he batted at Matsuoka's arm when he made to tickle his ribs. The door to the front foyer swung open with a squeal, and they both stopped short, perking to see a woman in a wheelchair being ushered along toward them by a nurse, speaking quietly until they'd reached the waiting chairs, where she was maneuvered onto the end of the row beside them. With a quick goodbye, the nurse left at a jog, and Matsuoka nodded politely to the woman. "How's it goin', ma'am?"

"Hello," she sounded surprised, "Very well. Thank you. Have you been waiting long?"

"Nah, not so much." His fingers tangled in Haru's hair to muss it playfully, and Haru punched his wrist, genuinely angry. "Got a good friend with me."

"So I see." She had creases at the corners of her mouth and long, droopy earlobes weighed down by pearls that looked green under the fluorescents. A flowery perfume trailed along behind her, and occasionally he caught delicate whiffs of it on a gust of air from the vents overhead. The oscillating stink of her sweetness and the Clorox soaked walls made him nauseous. "How are you today, young man?" Haru pursed his lips at how easily Matsuoka had slipped into conversation with someone else and, thrown off by the interruption, ignored her to slap open a clean page.

Matsuoka took it upon himself to excuse his rudeness when she searched him with shock for answers, but Haru stared the woman's atrophied legs through her faded, grey jeans for as long as he could stomach it, and when he couldn't he turned away to nuzzle the underside of his collar.

After that, he was silent. Until his grandmother emerged from the back with a cautious limp in her step, he kept to himself and pretended to tune them out, but when he saw her, everything else was forgotten. Her face was pallid, and she grimaced each time she put a foot forward. It was a movement full of pain. His heart sank, and he dropped the sketchbook, scrambling off the seat to reach her as fast as his legs would take him. Tennis shoes smacking against the dingy tiles, he went so fast he nearly stumbled into her, stumbling to a stop and searching her narrow ankles for something to fix. There was nothing, though, and his sudden distress gave way to defeat. He shuffled closer, pulling their fingers together and tightly gripping the hem of her long overcoat. There was obvious concern when she met his gaze - with his eyebrows drawn together and lower lip quivering - and he huffed once in confusion, afraid and worried and short of breath.

The corners of her mouth drew into a frown, and he held tight when she she shook her head. "Oh, Haru, that's a terrible face. You'll get wrinkles before your time." Fabric whispered against skin as her other hand slid out of its pocket, and she gently coaxed his own from the fist in her coat to massage his red knuckles. "Go get your things," she said. "It's time to head home," and silently he stepped away from her to do as she asked. Ignoring the woman and Matsuoka completely, he gathered his notebook against his chest and dashed back to his grandmother. Blue eyes flitting toward Matsuoka as he called out when they passed, he would have neglected to speak but felt the insistent weight of her palm between his shoulders telling him to be polite.

So, he halted in front of Matsuoka and the woman who was now being wheeled away by the nurse who'd returned with a short greeting to their gathering before setting off again. Nodding stiffly, he said, "Thanks for being my friend," and sniffled.

"No problem." His eyes were kind, but Haru didn't want to see them, so he shifted back against his grandmother and faced forward, ready to leave.

"That's not it, Haru," she spoke, and he pouted.

Refusing to face him again, Haru said curtly, "Goodbye, Mr. Matsuoka," and was grateful when she gave his head a gentle, accepting thump and made to say her own goodbyes.

"I appreciate that you keep him company when you can."

"It's really nothing, Mrs. Nanase. I have two of my own, so it's hard to see him sittin' here so lonely. I can't stay back and let it be, I guess," he laughed.

"I agree entirely. It's too bad not everyone shares your sense of responsibility. Where are your children now?"

"They're at home with my wife. A waiting room's not a great place for them, since my daughter's only two, and my son couldn't stand still if you glued his shoes to the floor."

"How old is he?"

"The big six, but you have to say _six-and-a-quarter_ if you're talking to him, or he'll get fussy."

"Really? He has that in common with Haru, then."

They spoke over his head, and Haru knew his grandmother's legs were hurting, so he didn't know why she kept talking when she should have been on her way home to rest. "Grandma," he pleaded, and she sighed with resignation.

"Well, we need to be on our way. Again, thank you for your time. Until another day."

"See you then." When she let him begin to tug her forward, he didn't spare a backward glance at Matsuoka.

The ride home was slower than usual and filled with long pauses at stop signs and intersections. In their modest little mountain town, the traffic was too absent for it to matter, and Haru watched the lines on her forehead gradually deepen into a severe scowl. By the time they arrived, she was tightly clenching her jaw, and he stayed quiet while she breathed slowly, the car rumbling beneath them. After several long moments, she turned it off, twisting in her seat to unbuckle him, and when he was finally free he hurriedly slid to his feet and popped the door. Hopping to the ground, he ran around the front of the car to get to the driver's side door and tug it open with his whole weight, and when she saw him she laughed so that some of his panic ebbed.

"Haru. it's a little joint pain. I'm not dying," she said, stepping lightly out of the seat, "but if you want to help you can run your own bath tonight. Think you can handle that?"

"I can!"

"Tell me how."

"You turn on the cold water, and then you put the hot water, and you sit in the bottom."

"Before that?"

He mulled it over for a minute, taking her hand when she offered it, and remembered. "Oh. I have to sing."

"Good boy." She was gentler than usual heading up the steps, and he held back a sneeze, chilled and clinging to her fingers while she fought to fit the right key in the lock. When they were finally safe indoors he sprinted up the stairs without removing his shoes or coat. His bath was shallow, and he'd barely rinsed the soap from his knees before he was plodding back down in his pajamas to help her prepare the spare bed in the sewing room. The notebook was forgotten in the car until the next afternoon when she woke with ankles too swollen to move and a request for something colorful to put on the wall.

For a little over a week, she left the bed for nothing more than to use the bathroom, and Haru took care of the house while she rested. In the kitchen was a homemade apron measured to fit his waist and a short stool he used to see over the top of the stove to make instant soup from cans. In the utility closet the washer and dryer opened from the front, and he put the dirty clothes hamper on a wagon he rolled in from the garage to cart the washing back and forth from room to room. In the den there was a television he turned on only for cartoons and a thin pad of paper beside a telephone on the end table, and when calls came for his grandmother he doodled stick figures as reminders for later and went back to watching TV. Everything was in order, and she doted on him for being such help.

Nine days passed, and the sun was a peach-colored smudge behind the shell pink curtains over the bathroom window while he sat in a foamy bath. His cheek was resting on the top of his knees, and he was content, using cupped palms to make crests in the water.

"Row, row, row your boat... Gently down the stream," he sang. The door was cracked so his grandmother could hear it better, but he could hear things out there better, too, so when the phone rang downstairs the tune petered out on the last word, and he perked his ears. His grandmother's voice was muffled, but he could make out what she was saying well enough to know who was on the line.

"To what do I owe the honor of a call from Your Majesties?"

...

"No, you may not. He's in the bath, but if you want to wait, he'll be out shortly."

...

"Well, you certainly gave that up quick."

...

"And I'm not interested in fighting with you either, so let's have the point."

...

"I'm sure he'd like that. Very much. It'd make a nice change."

...

"You can ask him yourself when you get here. If that's all, I have responsibilities."

...

"Goodnight." Her voice was always so hard when she spoke to his parents.

He shut his eyes to submerge his head and stretch out in the tub, ignoring everything in him that was suddenly heavy and sad and letting it weigh him to the bottom. How long he was under, he didn't know. The only sound was a slow drip falling off the leaky faucet and hitting the surface of the water. It was peaceful, and he stayed down until his ears were filled and his breath had nearly run out when he resurfaced. With a smile, he pushed himself upright, breathing deeply and wondering how long he'd been able to hold his breath. The bathroom door creaked, and he turned to see his grandmother watching him with a frown. His smile vanished.

"You stopped singing. I was worried."

"Oh," he said quietly.

"Is something wrong, Haru?" she asked, making her way inside. Lowering herself onto the lip of the tub, she leaned in to push his bangs from his eyes.

He reached for the drain stopper. "No." It tugged free with a _pop_ , and he stood from the emptying bath to step into a thick towel she'd unfolded from the rack against the wall beside them. While she patted dry his shoulders and scalp, his attention threatened to wander again until she spoke.

"How would you like for Makoto to spend the night?"

He perked up instantly and looked so forwardly at her so that she laughed. "You'll have to go and get him."

"I will," he said, turning to go, and she chuckled, tightening the towel around him.

"First, you must get _dressed_ ," she clarified. "Socks, shoes, coat, and your ear muffs." After he nodded, she continued. "Be polite to his parents, and don't stop on your way home. You just got clean; if you got dirt under your fingernails it would be a waste." Taking the towel into his own grip, he held it in place, draped around his shoulders like a shawl, and waited for her to finish speaking. "So, tell me what you're going to do."

"Be nice to Mrs. Tachibana, don't play until we're home, and don't talk to bums."

"And before that you have to get dressed. Honestly, from whom you get your sense of modesty I won't ever know."

"Can I go now?"

"Hmph." With a smile, she flicked his nose. "I'll call to let them know you're on your way. It shouldn't take more than an hour; be back before then." She pecked him on the cheek and spun him toward the door, and he scurried to his room to put on something appropriate.

Down the road, down the hill, down the narrow black driveway lined even in early November with welcoming flowers, he brought himself to a tall white door and knocked twice. It opened on a sweet-faced boy with green eyes and honey brown hair combed neatly whose smile was so warm it might well have been what kept the flowers alive. Haru's best friend.

"Come to my house if you want to."

Makoto opened the door to let him inside.

 

For several weeks, Haru's grandmother did not go to her therapy sessions. One night after she'd gotten back on her feet well enough to maneuver around the kitchen and make dinner, she'd told him, "It's worse to be better if the bettering's for the worse," and after that the subject was dropped. Then, his parents had called again, and after an icy conversation lasting barely more than ten minutes, she had composedly hung up the phone and declared they would need to be in bed early because she had an appointment at the therapy center the next day. He didn't understand how his parents could convince his grandmother to do anything she didn't think was wise. Everything she knew, she knew better than they did, but that made no change in the circumstances, and a week before Christmas day he was seated in the waiting room. With a pen in his hand and a notebook on his lap, he fumed over the familiar hospital stink.

Holiday carols played on the radio, and there was silver tinsel lining the walls. It was more of the same joke as always with hospitals: pretending to be places of happiness and life when the absence of it was all there was to find.

"Haru?"

Surprised out of his anger, he looked up. There was Matsuoka's familiar grin, wearing a festive green and red scarf around his neck which brushed along the floor as he bent over to be more level with Haru. "Matsuoka."

"It's been a month! I was worried you were mad at me or something. I was starting to wonder if I'd ever see you again," he rambled as he situated himself in the chair beside Haru who felt a little guilty that he'd forgotten about Matsuoka until then.

"That's too much. You're being loud."

He bellowed with laughter. "Same old Haru. I'm glad. How's Granny doing?"

Exasperated, Haru clucked his tongue and pointed the end of the pen at Matsuoka's face. "Don't call her that."

"Right, right. Sorry." Haru sat back, sighing, and put the pen down. "So, I guess we still won't see each other again for a while anyway after this. At least, not until after the New Year's Holiday is over. What do you want for Christmas?"

"Mackerel sushi," he answered without hesitation.

Matsuoka grimaced and groaned. "That's terrible. Where would you get fresh Mackerel in the winter?"

"That's why I want it."

"You're something else, kid. I can't use that at all." The easy chatter wound on so that his anxiousness was comforted until his grandmother was stepping into the waiting room, and Haru was thankful that she didn't seem hurt. Even she was surprised by Matsuoka, pleasantly so, and tipped her head toward him lightly as she approached.

"Hello again."

"Yes, ma'am. It's good to see you. Happy holidays!"

"Happy holidays. That's a lovely scarf," she said. He beamed at her.

"Thanks! My wife made it. My daughter stitched this bit right here," he pointed to one thread that couldn't possibly be distinguished from any other toward the bottom of the coil of fabric, "with some help from Mommy." It made Haru's grandmother smile, and she pulled him to her side when he stood, jealous of the attention she was giving Matsuoka.

The door to the back room opened, and a male nurse stuck his head out, ready to call a name from the clipboard in his hands before he turned his gaze outward and saw their group. With a wink to Matsuoka, he jerked his head. "You're up."

Turning away from the distraction, she waved a hand at the scarf. "It's lovely. Give them both my praise for it, and have a Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas. See you after the holidays," he called, walking backward toward the male nurse so he could wave goodbye.

After he'd gone and Haru and his grandmother were on their way home, he remembered to be relieved they'd left the hospital. "Can we get Matsuoka a present for Christmas?" he asked.

"I think that would be very nice. What did you have in mind?"

"He doesn't like Mackerel sushi, so I don't know."

"That _is_ a tragedy. I guess we'll have to give it up," she joked.

"Grandma, please."

The car slowed as they neared a light, and she said: "Good gifts take thought. You'll just have to think about it." So he did. Until he fell asleep, he wondered what he could do for Matsuoka, and until the next afternoon when his grandmother ushered him into a bath and his nicest clothes, and until the doorbell rang and he answered it to see a man and a woman standing there with traveling bags under each arm who he didn't recognize. Then, they fell to their knees before him, gushing with greetings, and he realized they were his parents.

Like a window struck with a rock, his focus shattered. His father had grown a mustache since last Haru had seen him, and his mother had dyed her hair lighter. They were dressed like salesmen in overcoats and bordered on being total strangers.

"Haruka, oh. I've missed you so much. Look at you, you're so big," she said, planting a kiss to each of his cheeks and seizing him in a brief hug. He didn't know how to respond to her affection, and the closeness left him feeling out of sorts. Touch was something he did with his grandmother, with family. She wasn't family. She was, she was his mother, but she wasn't. He didn't know her. It left him rattled.

Before he could figure out how to return the affection, she'd pulled back and was moving on to speak to his grandmother, but his father took her place and copied what she had done. Tickling Haru's face with his mustached kisses and a hug, he too had left Haru standing dumbstruck before he could react. Overwhelming and foreign, these people left Haru feeling like he was in a dream; a particularly bad dream where sharp corners had taken the place of what should have been round edges. Distantly they registered, no different than strangers in a waiting room coming and going without anything to do with him and perfectly happy about it. Their words were too loud, and his stomach tossed.

"Grandma, I want to go to Makoto's house," he said suddenly, breaking through the din and bringing the conversation to a halt. His parents wore twin expressions of confusion, and his grandmother looked concerned, but he didn't know what he would do if he couldn't leave right away.

"It might be better if you spent some time with your parents, Haru." His grandmother's voice was nervous, and it only made him more convinced that he had to leave and get away from whatever this was.

"No, I want to go to Makoto's house now." Taking a step back when his mother reached down for him, he put a hand out toward the chair by the door to grab his coat. Waiting for approval, he looked only at his grandmother. The good mood had vanished without leaving a trace, and he didn't care.

It was several moments before she answered, and Haru didn't say a word. "Well, Haru," she sighed heavily. "be home before dark." When he'd managed to shut the door behind him, his parents finally found their voices, and he heard the beginnings of an argument as he broke out into a run that didn't stop until he had reached the end of the road. After that, he walked as quickly as he could so that when he was standing on Makoto's porch knocking on the door he was red faced and gasping raggedly from the frigid air. Makoto's mother opened the door and looked surprised to see him.

"Haru! Oh no, you look frozen. Come in, come in," she said and stepped aside quickly to let him shuffle into the hallway. "Makoto's in the kitchen. Go on and get him."

"Thank you."

"Here, can I have your coat? Your face is red as a rose." She fussed and shut the door, drawing the sheer curtain over the little embrasure at the top while he worked his way out of his coat and shoes. The storm inside him calmed, and he relaxed. "Do you want some hot chocolate? I can put some marshmallows in it if you want. We were baking gingerbread cookies, so you can have some of those too when they're finished." On one of her hands was an oven mitt covered in reindeer, and she wore furry slippers and an apron covered in flour which shook off onto the floor as she scooted him along into the kitchen. The smell was so sweet it made his mouth water, and Makoto was crouched in front of the oven, watching the cookies rise through the window.

"Makoto, Haru's here," she announced, and he turned around quickly to greet Haru with green eyes that couldn't be happier to see him. Everything was OK.

"Haru, I didn't know you were coming. I'm so happy," Makoto said, padding over the wooden floor to grab him tightly. "Are you going to eat cookies with us?"

"I have to be home before dark."

"That's OK. They're almost done. Will you have some? I made them."

Haru nodded, and when Makoto gave him a grateful smile and grabbed his hand to guide him up to his bedroom, he felt at home.

When he was standing on his own porch again, the sun burning red behind the black silhouette of the mountains like it had gotten caught in a valley and given up trying to get out again, he stopped to listen. There was no shouting, but there was arguing.

" _Mom, as long as we're paying for the house and the doctor's visits, we expect you to take better care of him than this. We don't ask a lot of you. Walking here and there by himself, taking his own baths, hardly another child his own age around to play with him - it isn't a good environment for a growing boy. It's no wonder he acts the way he does._ " Father's Judgment.

" _Don't speak to me like I'm a child. This has nothing to do with the doctor's visits or the insurance, and I can move around better when I don't have a therapist breaking my ankles. It's arthritis, not an amputated limb; you go too far pestering me about it, and you can stop paying for whatever you feel necessary. I have my own income._ "

" _Social security isn't enough to take care of both of you. There's no reason to be difficult. We give you this because we can, and because it wouldn't be good for Haru to drag him all over the world with us, but this isn't good for him either. He isn't being socialized._ " Mother's Judgment.

" _We feel it might be wisest if you moved into our house so that you're closer to town. It would be less of a drive to get to your therapy, and when Haru starts school it'll be easier for him to get around. You have easier access to the markets - It's...it's simply a better situation. Give it a try._ " Father's Dismissal.

" _I raised you, and now I'm raising your son, and if you're so sure the best way to bring him up is your way, then you can move back and do it yourselves._ "

" _You know why we can't do that, and you need to take our feelings into consideration. He's our child._ " Mother's Dismissal.

Tried and given sentence. He didn't want to hear more than that, and the idea of them coming back to take him in left him afraid, so he opened the door and walked straight into the living room to stand in front of his grandmother sitting on the couch. Every eye in the room was on him, and without turning to look at his parents sitting in a love chair to either side of him, he grabbed her hand. "I'm tired. Please tuck me in."

"You don't want dinner, Haruka?" his mother asked. "We were going to set up the Christmas tree when you got home."

He quivered. "I'm tired." Dinner was gingerbread cookies and hot chocolate. He didn't need more than that. He didn't want a Christmas tree. He wanted to be tucked in and ignore this until it was gone. His grandmother cast a look behind him at his parents, but without doing more than that rose to her feet and let him guide her upstairs. They insisted on coming along to sit at the edge of his bed and tell him how much they loved him, kiss his forehead and pull the covers up to his chin, but he didn't care for their affection. It was hard to bear, and by the time his grandmother took her place with them standing watch in the doorway to observe, he was ready to leave and go back to Makoto's house. "When is Christmas over?" he asked.

"Five days." She kissed him gently at his temple and resituated the blanket the way he liked it. "Sweet dreams." On her way out, she turned the light off, and once the door had shut Haru pulled the covers over his head and exhaled. How long was five days?

How long was one for that matter? Longer than he'd thought, obviously. The first began with an impersonal breakfast in town at a chain restaurant where his parents asked him about his friends and his hobbies like they were reading from a list, so he told them about Makoto and his drawings. His father asked to meet Makoto, his mother asked him to draw a picture of their family, and his grandmother sat watching the entire thing silently when he told them, "I only draw what I want." After that, the questions ground to a halt, and the day continued on to choosing a Christmas Tree at a nursery a short drive up the mountain outside of town that bored him until he sat down in a low snow drift to make angels. It finished with a trip to a crowded department store where he was asked to choose a gift for himself, but he didn't want anything and couldn't explain why to them when they were confused. By the time they were back home, he was exhausted and irritable, crawling into his bed to recoil at how long a day was. He still had four to go.

On the second, he woke up early and drew a picture of a flower, stuck it to the handle of the refrigerator with a block of tape, and left the house. He stood with his toes edging the soil of a flowerbed at the end of Makoto's driveway just as the streetlights were silently blinking off, leaving the world around him hidden in morning gloam. Kneeling, he slipped his hands into the soft, black mound at the roots of a flower and drew a fish for good luck, even taking the time to give it scales. Then, he brushed his hands off, stood, and walked toward the front door to knock gently. Makoto's father, already dressed properly and standing in his house slippers, opened the door with a broom in one hand and stared in surprised at Haru.

"Good morning, Mr. Tachibana."

"Oh. Hey, there. Good morning, Haru," he said, casting a look up and down the dark road and rushing Haru inside with a hand on his shoulder almost faster than Makoto's mother had. "If you're here for Makoto, he's not awake yet."

"I know."

The door was shut and locked behind them, and he was guided into the kitchen, where the smell of brewing coffee was thick in the air. "I'm still cleaning, but you can have some breakfast and watch TV while you wait for him. How does that sound?" Haru nodded and climbed up to sit on a barstool, watching Makoto's father zoom around the bar and set a plate of cut fruit pieces and a glass of milk in front of him before taking Haru's coat and leaving the room. When Makoto woke up and meandered sleepily in the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, the first thing he did was laugh at the sight of Haru and rush over, pointing to his own upper lip.

"You have a mustache," he said, climbing up on the stool beside Haru.

Ducking the lower part of his face under his shirt collar, he rubbed his mouth and straightened, staring seriously at Makoto. "Is it gone?"

He giggled, grabbed a kitchen towel from the counter, and brought it up to dab at Haru's mouth.

The day whiled away until the streetlight were humming back to life outside, when Haru finally went home to parents obviously annoyed that he'd been gone and his grandmother's furrowed brow at the dirt under his fingernails. Before being put to bed, he was told to scrub them clean, and he stayed awake long after, listening to them debate what to do to make him spend time with them. Nothing would have worked. He didn't want to spend time with them, and he rolled over on the sheets to gaze across the room at the notepad on his desk. For Christmas, he decided, he would draw Matsuoka a new picture, and in the morning he told his parents he wanted a set of paints for his gift. They were so excited that they forgot to talk down to his grandma, so after that Haru devoted himself to holding their attention if that was all it took for them to leave her alone. Sitting in the living room listening to the radio and watching movies on TV while they gabbed about the difference between frying turkeys and baking them, he worked his way through a wearying holiday of having to give his energy to what they liked and painting whatever they asked. In the end, they chose a smoked ham for Christmas dinner, and he only pretended to eat it, dumping it on the floor when they weren't looking and waiting until later to pick it up and throw it in the trash.

When finally they had gone, the afternoon of the twenty-sixth, taking their bags and their kisses with them, he was both relieved and regretful. They were all wrong.

So, he dug in his notebook for the picture he'd painted of himself and his grandmother and presented it to her in secret. "Merry Christmas, Grandma," he said, and she seemed angry before she calmed, grabbing him into a tight hug; one that felt right. She rose to her feet and walked to the freezer, pulling out a long fillet of mackerel with a wink and a grin.

"Just for you. Merry Christmas," she said, and he was so filled with joy that he left the memory of his parents to gather dust where it didn't trouble him, running to her and hugging her calves while she laughed. "Don't you ever change for anyone, my love."

"I won't."

"Except for right now. Go get on something clean for dinner." She bent over and kissed the top of his head, then he bounded off up the stairs. Outside, the world was shades of white, like the snow was only the heaviest parts of the pale sky that had settled at the bottom of the horizon, and the sun came in through the windows cold and clean and brilliant. He smiled until he fell asleep that night.

New Year's came and went calmly as Haru and his grandma sat on their porch twirling sparklers before making their way to the Tachibana house to watch Makoto's parents set off whistling fireworks that bloomed like flowers against the night sky before their bright petals dropped off and drifted away, and the group migrated inside to watch the festivities in Times Square on the television. Haru nodded off on the couch beside Makoto and didn't wake up until the next day, finding himself in the sewing room bed beside his grandmother, and once his eyes were open he slipped out of the bed to hunt down his notepad. Time was harder to track without something to dread, so he counted phone calls and nights without them to know when the next doctor's appointment was approaching. On an evening when the phone rang for an entire minute before his grandma answered, he knew it would be the next day and dashed into the bathroom when her tone hardened into cold shards of ice.

She called up to him, and he turned the taps on in the tub, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes to let it fill past his face. The noise of voices grabbing for his attention disappeared under the water, and he waited - waited - waited time got harder to track and his lungs were burning - burning - burning so that he couldn't stand it anymore; had to come up gasping.

"Haru?"

He turned his gaze up, to see concerned, rusty brown and blinked. A voice droned over the hospital intercom, a woman's. The sound of feet passing by somewhere, double doors knocking together, and electric heater rumbling filled him up,and he looked away again, facing the notepad in his lap where one of his fingers was bookmarking a page toward the middle.

"You OK?" Matsuoka asked. Haru didn't answer, heart thudding away in his chest. A long moment of silence passed, and it seemed like Matsuoka gave up trying to get a response. Taking his place beside Haru, he leaned in close to bump their shoulders. "Well, I was gonna ask how your Holidays went, since I missed you, but now I think I might cry instead looking at you. What's up with the frowny face?" Again, Haru stayed silent, but with a steadying breath he turned to the page his finger was on and passed it over to Matsuoka, who accepted without question. It was then that Haru noticed how soft his hands were. Because he couldn't make himself look Matsuoka in the eye, he watched those hands stall, thump, and pass over the length of the page briefly before he laughed. Once, loudly, excitedly. Enough for Haru to face him.

"Wow," he said more quietly. "Wow, kiddo this is rad." He tugged the paper out and let Haru have the notepad back.

Sudden bashfulness overcame Haru, and he focused on the picture, pointing a finger to the long, black dolphin next to the bright red manta ray. "This one is me."

"You?"

"We're swimming." His hands traveled around the page, across the edges where he'd painted long, wavy leaves of green seaweed. "This will be sushi for lunch when we're done swimming." The whole thing was a runny blue after he'd swiped a brush full of blue watercolor over it, but he was proud, and Matsuoka's praise left him scooting closer.

"You have a real talent, Haru. Never give that up, huh? Never give up what makes you happy."

"What if I can't?" he asked, wiggling his toes in his shoes. Matsuoka sat straight so that the chair creaked under him.

"No such thing as _can't_ since you're askin' me," he trailed off. "But, if there is, only you can decide it and know what to do about it. Asking me what I'd do if I couldn't do what I wanted is no good. Living your life for yourself is the number one thing."

Scratching his fingernails against the back of the notebook, Haru watched Matsuoka rifle through his pockets and pull out a balled fist, holding it over to Haru until he'd brought his own hands up to catch dropped out. At the end of a shiny, silver keychain was a stocky mackerel with rainbow scales shimmering under the lights. "I think it's supposed to be a koi fish, but I'm calling it a mackerel. It's not sushi, but there's always next year. Merry Christmas."

The hospital noise liquefied and rushed away, and with a smile Haru clutched the little fish close, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, and sinking under the surface of his bath. When he showed his grandmother the keychain that night, hair still dripping wet at the ends, she said, "It definitely has the look of a mackerel about it." He slept with it under his pillow and decided he would be less against going to hospitals if Matsuoka was there.

The months filled the year like the snow filled the lake when it melted across town; January seeping into February into March until the lake had flooded over its banks, and Haru was bracing his feet because if the months were melted snow, then the days were the snow falling, and he was fine with floods. It was too cold sometimes, though, and that was what got him; especially when calls came for him that he didn't want to answer. Matsuoka had become a friend in that time, someone Haru looked forward to seeing, who said things he didn't mind listening to, and he valued him dearly for it. He'd taken to drawing as much for Matsuoka as he did for his grandma, and he was never any less grateful to Haru for presenting him with new pictures.

The days were becoming bluer, but the weather was still too white to be able to play outside any time except for noon, but it didn't matter because he was indoors, standing against the wall with the long, curling phone cord wrapped around his arm.

 _Have you been behaving for Grandma?_     Yes.     _Do you know what you want for your birthday yet?_     No.

                                                                                                  ...                                                      _Hello?_

                                                                                                  _Are_                                                    Hello.

                                                                                                  _you_                                                         _Haru?_

                                                                                                  _there_                                                           I'm here.

                                                                                                     _?_                                                               "I'm here."

"What's that?" his mother asked. She didn't wait for him to reply, and he wouldn't have anyway. "Well let me talk to your grandmother now. OK, honey? Love you, love you, kisses and hugs," his mother said, and he set his eyes to look past the fog of the

 room and let the phone drop from his hand. The receiver swung on its wire, banging lightly against the wall, and he walked to get a jacket from the chair by the door, shimmying into it and zipping it to his chin before walking out. His feet took him to Makoto's house, stopped briefly, and continued walking until he was out of the neighborhood. It wasn't hard. He didn't live very far from the area's community center, built in the next subdivision, and he decided that's where he would go. Anyone who saw him waved and said hello or asked him to say hello to his grandma for them, and he ignored it all, marching straight up to a squat building, three times as long as it was tall, and throwing his weight against the handle on the single glass door to shove it open. A bell tinkled overhead, and he strode on through the big entrance room full of tables, passed a narrow doorway into a long pink hall, and kept walking until he had passed four doors and stood at the threshold of a fifth.

It was a modest locker room with fifteen or so short lockers pushed against the right wall behind a couple of wooden benches, across from another glass door on the left. He chose one of the lockers and stripped, carefully folding his clothes to stack inside and resting his shoes on top of the pile. Left in only his underwear, he closed the locker and stepped back, turning to make his way through the other door in the room where a heated swimming pool ran from one end to the other. As soon as he'd stepped through, he heard the sounds of splashing. The water was rocky, and a white towel was resting on a chair in the corner, under one of the rectangular windows letting the sun inside. Someone was already there swimming, and Haru approached the edge of the pool to watch them rise and sink, pulling themselves forward with incredible speed. They were so fast, in fact, that Haru could hardly track them, and they'd reached the opposite end of the pool in a matter of seconds. The waves undulated around them as they pulled themselves out of the water and onto the tile ledge, dripping everywhere and tugging a pair of goggles off their face and into their hair. Then, they jogged around to the chair with the towel, and turned to see Haru

A look of shock came over his face, and his eyebrows shot up. "Haru!"

"Matsuoka," he answered, staying where he was as Matsuoka went quickly over to meet him, crouching down to his eye level with an enormous smile.

"What are you doing here? Is grandma coming?" he asked.

Haru shook his head. "Only I'm here."

Matsuoka's eyes traveled from his face to his feet and back again before the smile faded and he quirked an eyebrow. "No swimsuit, huh? What about your parents, are they around?"

"I don't have parents."

"Everybody's got parents."

"No, they don't." He was adamant, and Matsuoka sighed through his nose.

"You know best, I guess. Come on. Want to swim a little?"

"Can you show me how to swim like that?" He pointed to the pool, and Matsuoka followed his finger to watch the waves rush against the sides. His smile softened to something fonder, and he patted Haru's head, standing to pull his goggles back down and diving back into the water. Haru watched him touch the bottom, and when his head came up again, he shook his hair as dry as he could and waved a hand toward Haru's underwear.

"You're not wearing the right kind of trunks, but how 'bout this: I show you what I can, and then you let me take you home." Without missing a beat, Haru slipped in, paddling his arms and legs quickly. "Not scared of the cold water, huh?"

"Sometimes I swim here with Grandma for therapy."

"Ah, then you weren't risking anything because you knew what you were getting into. You wanna swim like me, you gotta be willing to risk it all."

"It's just a swimming pool."

"But the swimming part of that's my passion." There was that passion thing again. It was all he ever seemed to talk about, and Haru waited for him to go on because he always had more to say about it. Matsuoka grunted, watching Haru spin his arms around. "Here, wait a minute. Go slower," he said and put his hands on Haru's arms to control his movement. "You're struggling. Swimming's got to be natural. Work with the waves, and they'll work with you."

"I know. I like the water."

"Do you?" He sounded surprised.

"It's quiet underwater."

Faltering, Matsuoka furrowed his brow. "You say some things that worry me for a six-year-old."

"Pots and kettles are both black," Haru said shortly. It was something he heard his grandma say once, and he was glad he'd gotten a chance to say it.

Matsuoka laughed, and with his help Haru began to let the water do the work for him, buoying him on the surface while he moved his limbs more calmly. "See, that's what I mean. My kid wouldn't have any clue what that meant; he'd tell me to shut up."

Peeling himself away from Matsuoka's grip, which had traveled to Haru's ribs to keep him steady, he wondered about that boy. Matsuoka's son. "Where is he?"

"Who? My son?"

"Yes."

Matsuoka shrugged. "He only swims one place, and he's not talking to me today because I'm leaving in a few weeks."

The atmosphere changed, and Haru frowned. "Leaving?"

"Yep!" he said happily. "I got a coach, and I'm going to start training for the Olympics soon, but little towns like this are too small for real gyms to train in. So, that's that. No more therapy for me. Just training 'til it's time to go so I can make a good impression."

Without an acknowledgment, Haru ducked under the surface and started swimming to the other side, slipping along the currents as they let him, and hoping to cut himself off from what he was feeling before it could take hold. Matsuoka was waiting with a relieved expression when he came up for air, and Haru held his face as calmly as he held himself in the water. After that, they didn't swim for much longer, and when Matsuoka waited for him to get dressed in the waiting room and take him home like he'd promised, Haru kept himself distant and. As they parted on his doorstep, his goodbye was so unwilling to come out that all Haru could do when Matsuoka leaned over to hug and clap him on the back was ball his fists and fail at keeping his face still.

"Hey, now. Don't look so sad all the time or you'll break someone's heart," Matsuoka murmured, and Haru's lip trembled. "I'll see you later, then. Don't go changin' while I'm away. Got it?"

Haru nodded and stepped away from the warmth of that wide chest toward his front door, and with a final bow of his head, Matsuoka trotted down the steps and took off at a jog down the road. Haru stayed where he was to watch him go, and when his shadow was gone, he closed his eyes and waited until the tremors had gone away and his feelings had been tightly forced back. Then, he turned and went inside.

 

_Are_

_you_

_there_

_?_

 

The wind whispered through the guard rails above his head, shuffling strands of his hair across his face, and he wondered if Makoto would tell him he needed to get it cut again today. It was warm out that summer morning, and he felt so easy and peaceful that he forgot where he was as he dozed, sighing at the soft smell of well-tended gardens below that the breeze brought with it. His eyes fluttered open, and he loosened the tie at his neck as he stared up into the wide, bright sky and wondered if the whole day would be as easygoing. There was a half-filled moleskine with its pages rustling delicately resting on the rumpled pile of his blazer and backpack, and he turned to face it, watching the pictures play hide and seek within themselves. It was enough to send him to sleep again.

The metal door to the rooftop stairwell near him banged open. "Haru!" Oh.

He sat up and watched Makoto's tall legs as he bent them to be able to get through the narrow doorway, cellphone pressed to his ear. With one hand he slapped the antenna down and flipped it shut, pushing it into his pants pocket. "What's wrong?" Haru asked, watching him approach and sigh in gentle exasperation. Haru knew that sigh well.

"I've been calling you. I guess you didn't bring your phone with you again," he said smiling. "You should at least take it on the first day."

"But you knew where I was, didn't you?" He got to his knees to and carefully slid his sketchpad into his backpack. Dusting the dirt off his uniform jacket, he maneuvered it around his shoulders

Makoto stood over him and extended a hand which Haru took to help himself up. "I did," he admitted, "but I was hoping you would have your phone so I didn't have to come all the way up to the roof. We might be late if we don't go now, and we were supposed to meet Nagisa before class." He seemed worried, and Haru slung the backpack strap over his arm as he made his way toward the door with Makoto close on his heels. Tugging his wrist up, he glanced at his watch and was surprised. Because he lived closer to school than anyone else in the group, he was always early, so he made it a habit to journey up to the roof and nap until the bell was ringing. Today was the first day back, though, and he guessed summer vacation had left his sleep schedule messy. He'd fallen asleep, and it was much later than he'd realized. Nagisa would probably be in the cafeteria by then, so that was where they would need to go. Leading the way down the dimly lit stairs until they came to a door that opened onto a less busy side hallway, Haru heard the first of two bells ring.

Makoto, he knew, would panic if he was late to class, but Haru wasn't worried about it. He'd rather find Nagisa. Besides, the earlier he found Nagisa, the less overenthusiastic he'd be in greeting Haru, and that was for the best, he thought. Sometimes, his affections left Haru sporting bruises or a cracked back, but as they left the cramped space of the stairwell and stepped into the dispersing morning crowd of students, he saw him. Wisps of blonde hair curled over his ears and along the edge of his round face, and long, blonde eyelashes batting mischievously at a stranger whose arm was tightly looped through Nagisa's own, he trotted toward them in a pair of new, sparkling white sneakers with lime green lights flashing inside the sole. The light glinted on something in his ear, and Haru look more closely to see a new, sparkling piercing as well. As Nagisa neared, he must have noticed Haru's staring and quickly used his free hand to brush a lock of hair over and hide it, winking at Haru and putting a finger to his lips.

"It's a secret. Your lives depend on keeping it, OK? So no slipping up!" he shouted when he finally reached them. It must have slipped his notice how loud he was being.

"Ah, Nagisa. You'll get detention if they catch you with that," Makoto said.

"You have to live on the wild side sometimes."

"Excuse me, but please let my arm free." The boy on Nagisa's arm finally spoke, and Haru gave him a once-over. Every strand of hair on his head was combed and set neatly, matching the unwrinkled perfection of his uniform and the spotless shine on his glasses. His voice was deep for a high school student, and his mouth was set into a firm line almost straighter than his back. Taller than Haru, and more apparently muscular, he was still neither as tall nor as muscular as Makoto, and Haru swapped his attention back to Nagisa who did release the stranger's arm.

"Everyone, this is Rei. He wants to be our friend." While Haru knew Nagisa was better at making friends than he had believed anyone could be before they met, Rei didn't look like the sort of person who would be so open. He reminded Haru of himself that way, and his thoughts were confirmed when Rei looked like someone had slapped him.

"What? No! No, that's not true. I thought you said you were a senior. You offered to show me around," he said loudly stepping back and looking profoundly embarrassed that Haru and Makoto might think he wanted to be friends.

"Who me?" Nagisa asked, grinning, "Nope. I'm a sophomore." At that, Makoto started stammering behind him.

"Actually, Nagisa, where did you get a letterman jacket?" They all turned their attention to the loose varsity jacket which was almost drowning him. Even if they hadn't known Nagisa, it would be obvious that the jacket wasn't his because it fit him almost as well as a hefty bag.

"Oh, right. I almost forgot I was wearing it. I borrowed it from a friend's friend."

"Did you take it from the locker room?" Makoto asked, and Haru hid his amusement at Rei's scandalized face.

Nagisa laughed more brightly than the sky had been that morning. "Maybe. Anyway, I have to go return it before class. Come on, Rei. Now that you have some friends, I can show you around for real. Let's meet after school," he said to the two of them over his shoulder as he spun around, grabbing for Rei's arm again. "You know," he piped as they were walking away, "I still know the school pretty well for a sophomore. I can show you all the best places to eat lunch."

"I don't want that from you. You're a con man," Rei mumbled, and Haru turned back to look at Makoto who was shaking his head.

"Some things don't change." The second bell rang, and he watched Makoto's head jerk back to look at the bell clanging up high on the wall. "Augh. We're late after all."

"Let's walk without worry to class."

"Haru..." Waiting for the approval he knew he would get, Haru watched Makoto's wide shoulders hunch as he sighed in defeat and sidled up beside him to head toward the doors giving way to the back of the school where the greenhouse was. First period: Horticulture. Closing his eyes as they pushed free of the doors, he let the wind welcome him outside, playing through the hair on the back of his neck while the sun shone down. The day, he guessed, wouldn't be as peaceful as he'd hoped, but it was close enough, and with Makoto by his side he headed off to start it in a garden.

**Author's Note:**

> i know this chapter is a behemoth and im rly sry about that but i can guarantee most of them are gonna be p small so dont crucify me ok?


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